


Ugly

by MajorTrouble



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Party, First Kiss, Jumpers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 16:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3074078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg convinces John to wear the World's Ugliest Christmas Jumper to a party to win a bet. Hilarity ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ugly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nightshadetears](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=nightshadetears).



> Written for the Exchangelock Christmas 2014 exchange! I had a lot of fun with this. I was given this prompt: "At a Christmas party, Sherlock and John are under the mistletoe." I took a few liberties along the way, but hope everyone is happy with the results.

John Watson stared at himself in the mirror, brow furrowed in a combination of amusement and disgust. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d let Greg talk him into this, but he was absolutely sure that the older man was going to pay. 

He sighed, turning to stare at the hideously cheerful jumper from a slightly different angle. Something in him was highly amused at the romping bunnies and deer dressed in tiny jumpers of their own. The rest of him was hoping to be drunk enough to forget it even existed.

“Oh no,” a voice breathed from behind him and he looked up into the mirror to find his dorm-mate standing in the doorway, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “That is by far the best ugly Christmas jumper I have ever clapped eyes on.”

John’s frown deepened. “Not the combination of words I was expecting.”

Greg’s eyes met his. A slow smile broke out over his face as he said, “You’re going to win this thing for sure.” He motioned to John, who twirled in place reluctantly. “Where on earth did you find it?”

The shorter man snorted. “Trust Harry to find particular pleasure in sorting something this ridiculous on a tight deadline.” He looked back at himself in the full-length mirror that adorned the back of his door into the shared bathroom, twisting this way and that to get the full effect of the cavorting woodland creatures that pranced merrily through appliqued snowflakes and holly. He was a big enough person to admit that it must have been a great deal of dedicated work that had gone into the knitting of the jumper. Harry had assured him that it was indeed hand-knit by a friend of a friend’s Great Aunt and that no one had ever had the wherewithal to actually put the thing on and take it out in public. Until now, it had only seen use at family functions where the Great Aunt was sure to attend. 

Greg clapped him on the back, grinning brightly. “Come on. Chin up! The lads have been taking bets all week on who will have the best ugly jumper. I’m gonna win enough to pay my bar tab for the rest of the semester!”

The younger man grinned back wrily. “Only if I get half of it,” he retorted mildly. He gazed back at himself in the mirror, looking a bit forlorn and washed out by the garish colours.

Greg faked a look of disbelief before the corners of his mouth tugged back into a grin. “Too right. We should get ourselves gone, though. Nearly time!” He strode back out of the bathroom, headed into his own room to get ready. John sighed again before opening the door, banishing the reflection of himself and squaring his shoulders. 

It was only a party, after all. He could get through this one night, ridiculous jumper and all. He gathered up his keys, wallet and jacket from their customary places strewn haphazardly across his bed and desk and headed out into the sitting room. He zipped the jacket up fully so as to conceal the ghastly jumper before the grand unveiling. Greg was lacing up his boots, still grinning, his tongue caught between his teeth. John rolled his eyes at his dorm-mate, shoving his feet into his own boots and following Greg out the door. They walked out into the cold evening in a companionable silence, hands shoved deeply into coat pockets, heads bowed slightly against the wind. Quickly they made their way across the wide expanse of lawn that separated the dorms from the main buildings of the college, heading across the campus to the other side where the private student residences lay. 

“Watson!” a voice rang out, causing John to pause and look over his shoulder. “Wait up!” A younger girl, all red cheeks and hair, came bounding down the walkway towards them. 

“Hiya Molly,” John greeted her cheerfully, giving her a careful hug. Molly was in his anatomy class as well as maths and infectious diseases. He liked her well enough, and they’d gone out as drinking buddies a few times. On their last excursion, two weeks gone, after a particularly harrowing final exam, they’d staggered back to the dorms completely drunk and having to hold each other up to get across the campus. Unfortunately, neither of them could find their keys and so John had boosted the smaller woman up onto the balcony of his second floor room in the hopes that she could wake Greg to let them in. 

The cast on her left arm attested to how successful that had been.

“How’s it feeling?” he asked, somewhat guiltily. 

“Oh fine,” Molly replied, shrugging her good shoulder. “Should have it off before we get into the heavy stuff in pathology. Hiya Greg! Looking forward to this party?” she continued, looking over John’s shoulder at the taller man.

Greg, for his part, was still grinning like an idiot. “Oh yes. I’m going to claim the pot this year for sure.”

“That confident in John here?” she asked, returning his smile with ease. 

“Absolutely! Just wait till you see it.” 

The three continued on towards the private housing, Molly taking each of their arms in hers, being careful not to jostle the cast too much. Their breaths puffed out in ghostly clouds around them as they chatted and laughed, rising through the air and disappearing into the surrounding darkness. They crossed the road that lead from the entrance to the sprawling college campus and headed down a twisting maze of suburban sprawl, trusting to Greg’s inherent sense of direction to lead them to their destination. 

“There she is,” Greg interrupted himself, nodding at the sprawling old house at the end of the lane. It was huge, nearly four stories, with a large porch swinging down from the front door. The drab grey exterior was lit cheerfully through the plethora of windows and John could make out the sounds of music and jovial conversation. 

“How many people actually live here?” he asked as they clambered up the steep steps and towards the ornate front door.

“Oh, just the Holmes brothers,” Greg answered, reaching up to knock on the door politely. “Thought you knew that already.” He turned a quizzical look on the sandy-haired man. 

John shrugged, though he had instantly felt the bottom fall out of his stomach at the revelation of whose house he would be spending the night. He tried for a cheerful smile as they waited for someone to open the door. “Must have forgotten. Nevermind, let’s win you that pot.”

At the reminder of what was hidden under John’s jacket, Greg’s grin returned, threatening now to split his face wide open with its intensity. “Right! Hullo Myc, nice to see you, here’s some wine,” Greg continued as a tall, elegantly dressed man pulled open the door. His obviously tailored trousers and waistcoat were a dark blue with thin, pale grey stripes, accented by a crisp white shirt and garish red and green striped tie. “Blimey, you’ve never heard of casual dress, have you mate?”

“Ah, yes, Gregory, thank-you. Come right in,” Mycroft said, ignoring Greg’s comment. He ushered them in from the chill and accepted the bottle of wine. His eyebrows shot into his hairline before he schooled his face to neutral so fast that John was almost sure he’d missed it. “This is an exceptional vintage, Gregory. Where on earth did you find it?”

“Oh, you know me, I can turn straw to gold. Was easy to find someone willing to trade for a bottle of the good stuff,” Greg answered, winking at Molly, who had stuffed her good hand in her mouth to keep from laughing. “Happy Christmas, thanks for the help with the, uh, case work.”

Mycroft closed the door behind the trio, still staring at the bottle he held. “It was nothing, really. Now, please put your coats in that room there,” he indicated an open doorway that lead to what anywhere else would be called a parlour. Greg and Molly dutifully dropped their coats over the back of a vacant chair before turning to stare at John expectantly.

John couldn’t help the smile that broke out over his face as he worked the zip on his jacket down, taking great pride in the slow reveal of the hideous jumper. Molly clapped both hands over her mouth, eyes wide with glee and horror. If it was even possible, Greg’s smile widened even further. Mycroft starred in morbid fascination.

Finally, after a full minute, Greg cleared his throat, waving one hand in John’s direction. “So, Myc, Molly, what do you think?”

“I think you’re going to win for sure,” Molly whispered. She reached a hand forward, touching the cuff where a pattern of Christmas lights was knit around the cuff. “You’ll never have to worry about having enough for a pint again,” she said, almost reverentially.

John cleared his throat, a touch embarrassed at her attention. She snatched her hand back quickly, smiling and ducking her head apologetically. “If he wins, he owes me half,” he said.

“Ha! Maybe twenty-five percent,” Greg countered.

“Forty,” John shot back.

“Thirty!”

“I would think that fifty would be acceptable, given who must wear that thing for the remainder of the evening,” Mycroft stated firmly. 

“Agreed!” John intoned. “Now, let’s get this over with because I need approximately eight shots of whiskey to survive this evening.”

Greg and Molly laughed outright whilst Mycroft smiled, gesturing with his free hand back into the main part of the house. They followed him as he wound his way through the crowded house, pausing to say hello to those they knew and wait for John to go through good-natured ribbing about the now-famous Ugly Christmas Jumper. He smiled at everyone, accepting drinks and laughter in equal measure, so much so that by the time they reached the back of the house where it was quieter and the other participants in the jumper competition had gathered, he had a pleasant buzz filling his head. It softened the lights of the house, making everything a bit easier to bear. 

The murmuring of conversation ceased completely as the quartet entered the conservatory. All eyes fixed on John. Despite the fact that all eight of the other people in the room were dressed in a variety of ridiculous, gaudy, and tacky Christmas jumpers, it was clear that none came close to the sheer audacity of the one John had donned. 

“Well, I think we have a clear winner,” Mycroft stated as he surveyed the room. 

“There is no way that jumper is hand-knit,” piped up a voice from the couch. Another student - John recognized her as a friend of Greg’s - pushed herself up from where she was sprawled. The huge, smiling face of Santa Claus covered the face of her jumper though it was stretched taut across her chest. Clearly this was a children’s article of clothing and not her own. 

“Come on, Sally, don’t be like that,” Greg pouted, arms crossed over his chest. “I am not one to cheat like that.”

“We’ll see,” Sally scoffed. “Sherlock! Come back here and do your job!” she yelled towards the open doorway.

John felt a distinct swooping sensation in his stomach as he turned with everyone else to watch as a tall, lanky man stepped leisurely through the doorway towards him. He tried to hide the blush and cover his sudden shyness by looking Sherlock in the eye as he walked forward, hoping the alcohol was accounting for the lightheadedness he was feeling.

The younger student was a bit of a legend. Whilst it was widely agreed that he was the brightest star in the proverbial constellation that surrounded the college, his social skills left a lot to be desired. Despite that, John treasured everyinteraction he had with the other man. Not that he'd tell anyone.

“You’re their own personal lie-detector, then?” he blustered, hands on hips as he grinned up at the taller man.

Sherlock’s lips twitched a bit in answer. “Something like that,” he mumbled, circling around John so as to get a better look at the jumper. John obliged him, holding his arms out away from himself so the other could get the full effect.

“I must admit, it is quite fetching,” Sherlock said, amusement colouring his tone. John’s blush deepened. Long, elegant fingers brushed against the collar at the nape of his neck and he shivered, a not entirely unpleasant sensation. “No tag, good start.” Those same fingers trailed down one arm, testing the gauge of the yarn, stopping at the cuff to roll it up slightly. “A wool and acrylic blend. Seams are stitched with great care.” He moved in front of John now, lightly touching the snowflakes affixed to the front. His eyes caught John’s and he winked, causing John to release the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in a puff of laughter. “Hmm, some wear on the edges of these decorations.” He stepped back finally, pointing at the frolicing woodland creatures. “This is clearly a one-of-a-kind, hand-knit sweater. Firstly, no one in their right mind would ever allow this to be marketed in an actual shop. Secondly, there is some discrepancies in the tightness of the stitching when the colours were switched across the front. And thirdly,” he stepped closer into John’s space, gazing down through half-lidded eyes at the other’s upturned face. “This particular sweater was once mine.”

John blinked up at him, uncomprehendingly. “What?” he blurted out, taken aback by the sudden pronouncement. “How - ?”

Sherlock stepped back, hands behind his back, though his fingers tapped against his wrist in agitation. “I thought I’d hidden that thing quite effectively, but it seems that someone was able to determine its location and bring it to you to wear, knowing full well that it was something I would know on sight. The question now is, why?” He rounded on John again, intense stare borrowing through him, pinning him to the spot. “Where did you get this from?”

“I - uh - that is - um,” John’s tongue would not cooperate with his brain as he fumbled for words in light of this new information. A sudden thought occurred to him. “This was knit by your Great Aunt?”

“That’s besides the point,” Sherlock huffed. The room had grown uneasily quiet as he continued to circle around John. “Now, answer the question.”

“It can’t have been that important to you if you hid it, now could it?” John countered. He lifted his chin defiantly. “What will you give me in return for that information?” He knew he was taking a huge risk here, but the alcohol he’d imbibed earlier in the evening had suddenly made itself known, tripping the switch in his brain that usually filtered out his more aggressive thoughts. 

Sherlock stopped abruptly in front of him, blinking in his startlement. “I - “ he started before subsiding in confusion.

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” Greg piped up, rubbing his hands together. “Bets on who’ll break first, lads?” he called to the rest of the group. Calls went out fast and quick as Greg took odds on favourite and collected fivers. 

John looked on in bleary amusement as Sherlock scoffed beside him, “Obviously I’ll solve this little mystery.”

“Oh you think so?” John replied cheerfully. He thought for a moment, whiskey making the idea percolate to the surface in a slow, solemn fashion that had him grinning wickedly. “Mistletoe,” he decided, nodding curtly.

Sherlock looked at him blankly. “Mistletoe?” he repeated. “What happens under mistle - oh!” His eyes opened wide as he looked back at John in startlement. He stared at the shorter man in rapt attention for a full minute before nodding. “Done.”

“What? What’s done?” Greg asked, coming to stand to one side, hands full of bills. 

John furrowed his eyebrows at the taller man, mouth downturned as he took in the confidence that Sherlock was projecting. “You’re sure?”

“Of course,” Sherlock shrugged one shoulder casually. “You tell me how my jumper came to you and you’ll have your festive tradition.” His grey eyes looked intense in their conviction. John swallowed as the ball of desire sitting in his stomach grew warmer.

“Festive what?” Greg asked, confused. “Does this mean he’s given in?”

John nodded slowly. “I think that’s how it works. I challenged, he accepted, therefore he broke first,” he said, not breaking his gaze with the taller man.  
Greg whooped as a collective groan went up from those still seated on the couch. “Yes! Another win for me!” he exclaimed, veritably giggling as he counted the bills in his hands. He pointed at the couch. “Don’t ever doubt me again, lads!”

“Aw, lay off, Greg,” Sally complained, standing and waving the rest of the group up off the couch. “Come on, let’s go. I for one need a drink.”

Grumbling, the hideous jumper clad clan slowly filtered out of the conservatory and into the main part of the house. Once they were alone, the murmuring of the party a background noise, John sighed and stepped back, looking down at the old wooden floor.

“It was Harry. She said she’d gotten it from a friend of a friend. I wasn’t about to ask what that meant since the jumper was so - so - “

“Ridiculous?” Sherlock supplied, a smile tugging at his lips. “Apparently my brother cannot be trusted. He’s the only other one that knew where it was, aside from me of course.” Suddenly, he grabbed John’s hand, pulling him over to the far side of the room where John had first spied the mistletoe hanging innocuously from the ceiling. “All right, then, your reward.”

“You don’t really have to do this,” John sighed, twisting his wrist to release his hand from Sherlock’s. “I was just taking the piss.”

Sherlock stopped, looking at him quizzically. “But you told me. If I don’t follow through, Greg doesn’t win the bet, and you won’t get your reward.” 

John rubbed at the place between his eyes, suddenly very tired and very embarrassed. “I know you don’t want this. Just - “

“What?”

“Just -” John was cut off by the soft press of lips on his and his eyes popped open in surprise. Sherlock cupped the back of his head, tenderly brushing the hairs there with the side of his thumb. The kiss started hesitantly before John let out a groan of pure need, surging forward to grip the sides of Sherlock’s head and deepen it. It was a heady feeling to finally feel those cupid bow lips under his own and he flicked his tongue against them, rewarded with an answering groan from the taller man.

He wasn’t sure how long they held like that before he had to come up for breath, panting slightly as he bowed his head. Silence rang loud between them before Sherlock surprised him again by laughing, the deep sound buzzing against John’s chest where they were pressed tightly together.

Affronted, John released him, pushing him back and away. He opened his mouth to make some cutting remark but stopped at the look of genuine pleasure on the other man’s face. They stared at each other for a full minute before Sherlock broke the silence.

“How long have you wanted to do that?”

John closed his eyes, letting the air leave his lungs in a rush. “Since I first spoke to you.” When he looked up, he was nearly bowled over by the look of wonder in the taller man’s eyes before he smiled, sudden as the rising sun.

The single word Sherlock spoke sent them both into gales of amazed laughter. 

“Good.”


End file.
